


Exhaustion

by Daenarii



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: DA4 HYPE, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-DAI, Post-Trespasser, and i said you're right!, and wrote this, i came across a post saying we dunno the repercussions for drinking from the well, lavellan's POV, not a happy ending (:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 20:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16961025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daenarii/pseuds/Daenarii
Summary: Soros Lavellan needs help. Luckily, he knows just who to turn to.





	Exhaustion

Soros hasn't been sleeping.

He's been trying to, of course; after a long day of investigating magisters, trying to free slaves, and delivering messages for a small fee, there's nothing he'd like more than to drift off to oblivion while lying in bed. He can't, though; as soon as he drifts off, there are voices in his ears, whispering and hissing and demanding--he doesn't know what. He can try to ignore them, but as the night wears on, they grow louder and more insistent. If he doesn't wake up, they fill his head with images: burned bodies climbing up a mountain, a glowing woman smiting those around her with flames, a large mass of blackness with a maw full of gleaming teeth snarling and snapping.

It's been days since he's gotten anything more than twenty minutes of sleep. He doesn't know how many--he hasn't kept track. His work is suffering for it, he knows, but he can't help it; no matter how hard he grits his teeth, he sees black spots every time he does something more strenuous than a slow walk (which includes standing). His speech is sloppy and sluggish, as are his thoughts, and he finds himself yawning so hard that tears spring to his eyes while he's on surveillance missions.

He wants to see Dorian, to ask for help, but he knows he can't. They’ve been careful, only seeing each other once or twice a month; Soros doesn't need any outside attention, and Dorian would receive  no end to the grief if anyone found out he’s involved with an elven man. Their nightly crystal calls help with the distance, but they also lull Soros into a false sense of security, convince him that _this_ night will be the one he can finally rest. His dreams quickly prove him wrong.

Soros starts hearing the voices during the day, though, when he might as well be asleep on his feet. They start in the morning, fuzzy and distant like the seagull cries, but unmistakable. Soros thinks they might just be the crashing of the waves in the harbor, until they grow in their intensity. Soros can't focus, and stumbles drunkenly into more than one person before he can duck into an alley, leaning heavily against the wall as he rubs his forehead.

He can almost make out words. He strains his ears, and hears something about--about wolves, and mages, and tearing, and betrayal, and lyrium. He pushes off from the wall and stumbles deeper into the alley, trying to run from the whispers. He feels something deep at his core trying to pull him in the opposite direction, but he ignores it. Dorian is _this_ way. Part of him remembers he isn't supposed to see Dorian for another week at the very least, but there's nothing he wants more at the moment. That's the only motivation he can find to ignore the pull at his willpower, which is terrifying, frankly.

Soros feels weaker with every step, both physically and mentally. His legs refuse to listen properly, his steps heavy and lumbering; his eyes won't focus on the path in front of him, stubbornly remaining fuzzy and unclear. His eyelids are the heaviest they've ever been, but he forces his burning eyes open wider. At times, he nearly turns around to follow the tug in his gut, but the weight of the crystal on his chest reminds him of where he's going and keeps his path true.

Dorian lives on the third story, which Soros hates at the moment. In the past, he'd been glad--the higher up one is, the more difficult it is to attack them during the night. Soros usually has no trouble scaling up the trellis of the garden to reach Dorian's window; he's practiced at it. But as sleep-deprived as he is, and with a headache of incessant whispers punching at his temples, he feels like it's an insurmountable task.

He stares forlornly up at Dorian's window, standing at the bottom of the trellis. He knows it's broad daylight, and he needs to move because anyone could discover him here at any moment and demand why he's trespassing, but his body screams with protests at the mere thought of climbing.

Soros allows himself three seconds of deep breaths before he moves. It took him a while to figure out how to climb with one arm, but truthfully, it isn't as hard as he'd expected. Well, when he's fully rested, at the very least; now, the balancing act is enough to wind him and make him see stars. He forces himself to keep going, however. He forgets to look at where he's going, and instead looks only at where he'll put his hand next. The edges of his vision blur and darken as he continues up, telling himself to just withstand one more ascending tug.

Eventually, Soros reaches Dorian's window--open, thankfully. He tumbles in and lands on his back, eyes squeezed shut as he heaves on the carpeted floor. Every inhale sends a sharp stab through his brain. His head swims in pain and distant fuzziness, and the voices are overwhelming in his ears. Sweat prickles at the back of his neck, and he thinks someone might be saying his name.

He cracks his eyes open, and even with his vision blurred and spotty and unfocused he can recognize Dorian's onyx hair. Dorian's mouth moves, and it's then that Soros realizes his ears are ringing. Soros closes his eyes, losing the energy to keep them open even a crack.

He feels himself drifting, dipping in between clouds and waves. The whispers reach a  crescendo, clamoring to be heard; images flash in front of Soros, wolves and mages and flames and lyrium. When a wolf snaps its maw right in front of Soros, he jumps awake, eyes flying open again.

He's sitting up, Dorian crouched in front of him with a worried crease in his brow. “Maker's breath, Soros,” Dorian breathes, hands on either side of Soros’ face. “What's happened?”

Soros doesn't respond for a long moment, staring at Dorian's face. He missed it--the opal eyes, the obsidian curl over his mouth, the mole next to the corner of his eye, the chiseled--

“Soros,” Dorian says, rubbing his thumb across Soros’ cheek. “Can you hear me? Say something.”

“Sorry,” Soros mumbles, swallowing a yawn. “I'm tired.”

“I can see that,” Dorian says. “When's the last time you slept?”

Soros furrows his brow, gaze unfocusing as he tries to remember. “I...don't know,” he slowly says. “Just now, I s'pose.” He brings Dorian back into focus, which takes an incredible amount of effort. “It's hard.”

“You need rest, amatus,” Dorian says gently. “Can you stand?”

Soros jerkily shakes his head. “No, it's--I can't sleep.”

“Nonsense,” Dorian says, shifting to Soros’ side. “You just need the proper motivation.” He slides his arms under Soros’ back and knees. “Up we go,” he says as he lifts Soros and stands fluidly.

Soros feels himself melt in Dorian's arms. He's warm, and Soros _is_ exhausted. He struggles to keep his eyes open, realizes he doesn't even remember what he wanted to say, then lets them slide shut. At this point, the whispers are almost a comfortable background noise.

Once Dorian sets Soros down on the soft bed and begins to pull away, however, Soros feels the peaceful spell over him break. He cracks open his eyes, only able to make a displeased sound as he reaches out his hand to grip the edge of Dorian's shirt.

Dorian stops moving, gaze riveted on Soros’s face. “I'm just going to make you more comfortable,” he says, lowering his hands to try and gently pry Soros's off. “What's the matter?”

Soros releases Dorian, looking up at the ceiling instead. He struggles to remember the words as he feels Dorian tugging his boots off. “I'm having...nightmares. There are voices. Whispers. I don't know.”

“Whispers? How long has this been going on?” Dorian asks quickly, moving to pull Soros's coat from his body. Soros intends to sit up and help, but he can't find the energy to.

“A week?” Soros supplies. “Maybe longer. Can't remember.”

“Why didn't you say anything?” Dorian asks, gently pushing Soros up so he can remove his coat. “You know I'm here to help.”

“I...didn't think it was a big deal,” Soros mumbles. “And you've enough to--”

“You should be well aware that _you_ take precedence over whatever political scandal I'm embroiled in,” Dorian interrupts. He sits on the edge of the bed next to Soros, frowning down at him. “Do you know what's brought this on?”

Soros shakes his head slowly. “No clue,” he says. He lazily blinks, but can't find the energy to open his eyes again. Has Dorian's bed always been so soft?

“You mentioned nightmares,” Dorian says. “Tell me about those.”

“Wolves,” Soros breathes, cracking open his eyes for a moment to watch Dorian stand. “Lyrium. There are people--hurting, burning, dying. And a woman.”

“A woman?” Dorian repeats. “I'm almost tempted to feel threatened.”

Soros exhales weakly in a laugh. “I'd dream about you before her if I had the choice, vhenan.”

“Good,” Dorian murmurs. Soros feels the bed dip as Dorian continues, “All worries aside, I quite like this romantic, sleep-deprived Soros. Calling me to bed in the middle of the day--how positively scandalous.”

Soros cracks his eyes open and swivels his head on the pillow to look at Dorian, lounging next to him on the bed, devoid of all his fancier trappings. His head is propped up on his hand, and he's looking down at Soros closely.

“Don't you have things to do?” Soros asks, slowly turning onto his side to face Dorian.

“Would you rather I leave?” Dorian asks, lofting a brow.

“No,” Soros says before he can stop himself. He wants to be embarrassed of how loose sleepiness has made his tongue, but he shuffles closer to Dorian instead, his eyes slipping shut as he curls his fingers into the fabric of Dorian's shirt.

“And how cuddly you suddenly are,” Dorian murmurs. He slides his arms around Soros, pulling him closer.

Soros sighs contentedly, losing himself in the sense of Dorian surrounding him. He missed the smoky, earthy smell of Dorian, the warmth he seems to seep constantly, the sense of safety that can be found in his arms alone. Soros melts into the embrace further when Dorian's lips brush the top of his head, and Dorian's fingers start to card through his hair, soothing and rhythmic.

“Rest, amatus,” Dorian murmurs. “I won't be taking no for an answer.”

If Soros had had any resistance in him left, those words would've chased it out of him. As it is, he can barely keep himself from falling into oblivion.

He can only hope it sticks, with how safe he feels.

* * *

It doesn't. As per usual, wolves chase at his heels until he's awake, hand shaking and sweat pricking his back. His hand tightens in Dorian's shirt, and his shoulders tense as he forces open his heavy eyelids.

Arms tighten around him, though, and pull him ever closer. His head is tucked under Dorian's chin, and he feels his eyes drift shut once again. He's safe. He's _safe_.

He falls asleep once again not long after.

* * *

He loses count of how many times he wakes up in that fashion, but he does know that Dorian's arms are still around him every time he does. That fact alone is always enough to lull him back to sleep.

The nightmares before he wakes up are always the same--wolves, wolves, wolves. He's sick of them. After the army of these identical nightmares, however, they change.

He instead sees a woman--well, a silhouette, really. She's golden and glowing, and he doesn't know how he knows she's a woman, but he does. Then she speaks--or close to it. Her voice fills his head rather than his ears, ancient and powerful and beautiful.

“The time for your payment is due, child,” she says. “Mythal demands your assistance. Go to her; you will know where. The Dread Wolf has risen.”

As soon as she disappears, Soros’ eyes snap open. He's wide awake; all of his fatigue is gone. He's still in Dorian's arms. They make him hesitate, but his gut twists; he _has_ to move. It's instinctual. He has somewhere he needs to be, and he knows how to get there, and how he intends to get there. He needs only to actually do it.

He starts to slowly disentangle himself from Dorian, taking extreme care not to wake him. Soros doesn't want to have to explain where he's going--that would take more time, which is already of the essence. He can't afford to--

Soros has one foot on the floor, halfway to standing, when Dorian groans and rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow. Soros watches him with wide eyes, alert. He stops moving with a puff of air, arms wrapped tightly around a pillow instead.

Soros hesitates, watching Dorian's peaceful sleeping face, cheek squished against a pillow and lips slightly parted. His hair is messy, sticking straight up on one side and swooping over his forehead. Soros feels a twist in his gut, telling his hand to brush the hair out of Dorian's face.

What is he _doing_? He can't just leave, especially without a goodbye. This isn't right. He gets a vision in a dream and drops everything to follow it? And what was that about the Dread Wolf? Could Solas--

Soros wrenches his gaze away from Dorian's face, launching into action again. It isn't his place to question; it's his place to do as Mythal wills him to, and now, she needs his help. He can't waste more time than he already has.

It takes him little more than a few minutes to pull on his boots and coat. He hesitates once his gaze lies on his amulet, sitting innocently on the bedside table. It was made to keep him in touch with Dorian; he wants to take it, his fingers itching with the desire. Before he can, however, he whirls around and steps quietly to the window.

Although something in him shouts at him to say goodbye, he doesn't spare Dorian another glance before he silently climbs out of the window, into the pre-dawn morning.

His journey will be long, and he can't afford to waste any more time.

**Author's Note:**

> Basically my thought process was that Mythal was in Danger or whatever, and since the "price" for drinking from the Well was said to be to follow her will, she called her "servants" to help her in the fight against Fen'harel. Will this happen? Probably not, but I live for the angst, so whatev


End file.
